


distance of youth

by acosmic



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Growing Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-17 08:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15457743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acosmic/pseuds/acosmic
Summary: djeeta, on growing up and meeting people.





	distance of youth

**Author's Note:**

> this is for [granblue fantasy tarot: crosswinds](https://twitter.com/gbf_tarot) (@gbf_tarot) so be sure to check it out along with other cool art/writing!  
> it was an honor to take part in such a huge project.

It’s not like Djeeta feels lonely.

There’s no reason to feel lonely when the people of Zinkenstill hold her high on their shoulders and braid her hair with lace ribbons and let her play in their houses instead of an empty home filled with a person she doesn’t remember. It’s not pity from them. It’s not loneliness from her. It’s Djeeta and Vyrn and letters with no return address.

She doesn’t mind any of this, because letters means he’s still thinking of her. Letters means it can still be a home for the three of them.

So she spends her days climbing trees, and, in the uppermost branches, poring over books borrowed from neighbors borrowed from libraries from distant towns on distant islands she can’t begin to imagine. She wants to imagine it—ships, buildings, people, the sky, the ocean, life on a scale beyond her comprehension. Something bigger than the apple in her palm.

Today, the shade is only marginally better than the sun, the heat making her movements clumsy as she cuts an apple into pieces. Vyrn doesn’t make it better. Out of excitement, he’s too close and she makes a cut too deep, a red line appearing on the palm of her hand. In the time it takes for Vyrn to get someone for help, Djeeta has watched the blood drip down to her wrist. It’s strange in a way, how slow she bleeds.

Along with the help, Vyrn brings a letter:

_Find me on the island of the astrals. Find me on Estalucia._

* * *

The spring of the penultimate letter, Djeeta finds a sword buried under crates and boxes—one filled with dried flowers foreign to Zinkenstill, another with burned books. Their origins were something she used to wonder about, but it eventually faded into the background of her life. The sword looks plain wrong in her hands, too large and unwieldy, practically comical. She’s a little girl in braids and pinafore playing pretend at a hero.

Hero or not, it’s all she can do.

* * *

It’s not enough.

Djeeta recounts and recounts the rupees. It’s not enough to get off Zinkenstill and it’s definitely not enough to last a day in one of those cities she’s dreamt about. She’s not sure of what she can do beyond the odd jobs she does in the village, and those have become synonymous with chores.

_“Djeeta! I know I promised you some rupees for chasing out those monsters, but I only have this pie. It’s apple. Vyrn’s favorite—”_

She takes the pie.

She and Vyrn eat two heaping slices in place of lunch. It’s sweet; a hint of cinnamon and vanilla melt on her tongue. Indulgences are fine, once in a while.

Despite bartering setbacks, afterwards there is: sword practice, more odd jobs, cleaning, laundry, the multitudes of little things to stay afloat. Djeeta paces the yard instead of doing any of that, until something shining, an impossible shooting star, falls above the forest. She probably shouldn't look for it. Curiosity killed the Erune and all that.

She goes to look.

She goes past the familiar part of the woods that’s long since blurred together, an ambling hike in that general direction through the afternoon heat and humidity that made everything drowsy.  

There’s a noise, the soft crack of twigs being stepped on and—

Djeeta sees a girl. An ethereal, ephemeral girl with blue hair who glows in the dim of the forest. An ephemeral, ethereal girl who must be a remnant of the Astrals because what else would fall from the heavens?

In snippets Djeeta hears, amidst gasping and the low drone of a ship about to land: _Empire. Soldiers. Katalina._ Help.

Djeeta takes her hand and runs.

* * *

In a way, it’s good that Djeeta’s good with names. there’s Katalina, Rackam, Io, Rosetta, Eugen, Lecia, and on and on and on.

It’s dozens more people than Djeeta expected to meet and befriend, let alone letting come and go on the Grandcypher. People tied to her or her father or Vyrn or just people who took a curiosity in these visiting skyfarers and their plight. Peasants to nobles to merchants to wanderers to those that rival the strongest in the Skydoms. There are dozens that claim to be among the strongest in the skydom, but with the Eternals, Djeeta knows it to be true. But, sometimes Djeeta wonders why you would want anything to last eternally.

With Six, Djeeta’s smart enough to connect the dots, to at least guess at Six and the skyfarer heading to the ends of the sky. It’s fate, or close to it.

It hurts only a little when she thinks about how, _hey, dad was taking care of some other kid while you were left alone for years and years_. This is partially because Six is easy to pity and easy to bully in equal measures. This is also partially because it’s hard to be hurt by someone you don’t know.

So she doesn’t ask. In a way, it’s easy to be kind, to not pick at old wounds, because she knows that there are things that don’t want to be touched. It’s easier to file it away until it’s processed into a rose-tinted memory. Djeeta pulls the mask off Six’s face and laughs and laughs and laughs, because it’s easier this way. It’s easier to pet his ears instead of pulling apart her feelings.

_Did you want to be special? Did you want this legacy? Primal killer—_

Six’s ears are soft. Probably a 9 or 10, although it would definitely be a great idea to go around petting all the other Erunes’ ears for comparison.

* * *

Everything about Lyria seems too soft, too delicate, that it’s hard to imagine her summoning Bahamut and the multitudes of other beasts Djeeta’s seen her take on. Lyria hates—not _hates_ because Lyria is the paragon of forgiveness and kindness that sometimes runs thin in Djeeta—the others acting like she’s too weak, too fragile to be of any use at all. So this is why Djeeta is braiding Lyria’s hair so she can help in the kitchen.

“I didn’t know you could braid hair,” Lyria says. “You didn’t do it for me when we cooked for Charlotte.”

“I guess it slipped my mind since it’s been a while… I used to have long hair that I’d have braided when I was younger. Although, it wasn’t nearly as long as yours.”

There’s a lull in the conversation as Lyria imagines this younger toothy-grinned Djeeta with braids.

“I cut it. When I decided I would find my father. I wanted to seem more grown up, someone strong enough to go to the ends of the sky. Someone who wouldn’t get left behind.”

The ribbon’s hard to tie against the wind. It was silly to braid hair on the deck of the Grandcypher, but Lyria had smiled and gushed about how lovely a day it was and how clear a blue the sky was and Djeeta can never find it in her to refuse such small happinesses.

She finishes with a flourish, doing a mock curtsy as Lyria applauds.

Then Djeeta says, all business, “If Sandalphon says anything rude to you, I'm going to throw him off the ship.”

“He won’t. We have an understanding.”

If it was anyone else other than Lyria, it would sound smug, but since it’s Lyria, it’s a fact of life. Of course, Lyria has befriended Sandalphon. There’s something about Lyria that makes you want to let her in. To show the recesses of your heart and go: _Here is my trauma that is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. You can’t do anything about it, but being with you is enough._

(“But aren’t you the same, Djeeta?” Lyria goes.)

“I think I’ll make tea.”

* * *

Djeeta balances the tea tray with one arm, knocking on the door with her elbow. It opens with a loud creak with a view of Vira on her bed, elbow digging into the mattress as she languidly sits up.

She places the tray on the dresser, moving a hairbrush, something dainty, painted with blue flowers, aside for it, and kicks the door shut.

There’s probably a story behind the brush, memories of Albion and a Katalina and Vira that Djeeta will never know. That’s all the people on the Grandcypher: stories she won’t know and never will know and stories where she’s let in, pulled by an arm or a word or tears.

They’re not drinking the tea. It’s Vira’s favorite; she should probably mention that.

“The tea’s—”

When Vira leans over Djeeta, her hair cascades over Djeeta, tickling her face. Djeeta tries to resist the urge to stroke it, but she obliges her instincts.

“What are you doing?” Vira’s voice is sharp, but not cruel. There is never anything blatantly cruel about Vira’s carefully measured words; her cruelty is in the smile she wears when she unsheathes her sword and the sickening sweetness in her voice when she goes, “Don’t speak of Katalina like that,” and the tilt of her head and the creasing of her eyebrows and all the other little things driven by her love. She wants to ask, “Does that make your love selfish or selfless?” and, “Do you miss Albion?”, but it would the same as asking Djeeta, “Do you miss Zinkenstill?” _Yes. But I won’t go back. I don’t want to see it become a place without me._

She knows such a childish wish won’t hold true, that she’ll return and have to push those feelings down but for now—

“You’ve changed,” Djeeta says. “Before, you would have pulled your sword out. Unless I was Katalina.”

Vira laughs and it’s not elegant at all. It’s a harsh short bark, like an animal, like a primal beast, and she leans back, looking at Djeeta with a glint in her eye. She says simply, “You’re not Katalina.”

She stands up and Djeeta lets her go.

* * *

By the time Djeeta returns the tea set to the kitchen, Sandalphon is gone. Lyria has her face pressed against a counter, one cheek smushed, watching coffee drip. One of her braids has come undone, ribbon dangling to the floor.

Djeeta sits down on the floor and pulls the ribbon loose. “How did your coffee-brewing lesson go? Do I have to kick Sandalphon off the ship?”

Lyria stands up, beams, and turns back to the coffee-drip-thing in excitement. Djeeta has no clue what it’s called or what it does beyond a vague idea of making coffee. Lyria is still smiling when she says, “He didn’t really say anything, but he let me watch and drink a cup of it!”

“Whoa, you even befriended Sandalphon. He still calls _me_ Singularity.”

Lyria pouts. “He calls me ‘the girl in blue.’”

“Give it a week, tops. Do you want to bet a coffee on it? I take it with 3 sugar cubes.”

“You’ll be friends with Sandalphon too,” Lyria says. She looks uncharacteristically serious, and Djeeta resists the urge to get up to rub against the crease between her eyebrows and go, _you’ll get wrinkles_.

“I'm not so nice that I’ll forgive Sandalphon after he, you know, threw me off a cliff and tried to end the world.”

“But you already have.”

“But I'm still as not as kind as—” _Everyone thinks I am; everyone expects me to be; you._

“But you’re trying! Even if you think you need to act a certain way, it’s enough that you’re you! Everyone wants to support you. Because you’re our captain.” Lyria’s voice rises and Djeeta doesn’t look at her face, instead focusing on Lowain doing meal prep while very pointedly ignoring their conversation across the room. A pause. Then there’s a clack as a mug of coffee is placed in front of Djeeta. Three sugar cubes are in the midst of dissolving.

Djeeta swirls the mug, takes a sip, and promptly burns her tongue.

“Thfanks.”

Lyria peers down at her in worry. “Are you okay?”

Djeeta laughs at this and nods, and when Lyria holds out her hand, Djeeta takes it. Letting Lyria pull her up, she says again, “Thank you. Let’s go up to the deck.”

The sky is surely as blue as Lyria’s hand is warm. She squeezes it.

**Author's Note:**

> djeeta, vira, and lyria (destiny bound)  
> 0\. the fool - beginnings, innocence, spontaneity, a free spirit ; reversed: naivety, foolishness, recklessness, risk-taking  
> 16\. the tower - disaster, upheaval, sudden change, revelation ; reversed: avoidance of disaster, fear of change  
> 17\. the star - hope, spirituality, renewal, inspiration, serenity ; reversed: lack of faith, despair, discouragement
> 
> thank you for reading!


End file.
